


The Waiting List

by bitchinlesbian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: FUCK endgame, M/M, fuck the russos, i am in constant pain so i wrote this, i hope this doesn't make you cry, in a bad way at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:10:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchinlesbian/pseuds/bitchinlesbian
Summary: Oh, sweetheartI wait for your handthe day you calland I'll come, I'll comeI'll comebecause I'm meant foryoua stony fix-it bc myheartisbroken





	The Waiting List

 

Clocks are supposed to be helpful. They're not supposed to jeer at you with every tick, taunt you with every tock. The two handles can fuel the strongest of nightmares, ebbing away at the small amount of happiness one still has in them.

He knows staring at the time won't do anything. It won't make the moments pass by quicker, the horrible agony passing by in a blur. He may be a superhero, and saving people is what he's supposed to do, but this... this isn't how saving someone feels like. It's different than he remembers. Worse, no doubt.

"Steve. Come on. Pepper's taking Morgan home and Happy's going with them. You could at least say goodbye. You know it's too painful for them to visit this often, and you being... like this isn't helping them come to terms with everything."

He ignores Sam's voice. "I'm fine."

"Steve-"

"I said I'm fine, Sam." He's clearly not. "Tell Pepper I'm sorry, will you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, all right." The door clicks shut, thundering in both his and Steve's ears, a sound they've had the displeasure of getting used to these past three months. Sam's not going to tell Pepper Steve's sorry. She knows, she's always known. 

The view outside of his window is a nagging reminder of the time he failed the one person who trusted him, even in the face of certain death, even after everything they'd been through. He didn't want things to be like this, ever, but he couldn't go back anymore. They'd gone back enough times already.

His beard's growing back. He tends to forget until he's running his hands through his hair and down his face, the stubble scratching at his overworked skin incessantly. It's always in front of a mirror when the action happens, his reflection mocking him and everything he didn't do to save the person he loved.

Again.

 

 

 

 

It's raining. A nice sound somehow, the water drumming against the windows and roof in a light and gentle beat, contrasting everything he's feeling. He enjoys it now, especially once he learnt what it meant to the love of his life. That it kept him sane, that it kept him grounded. And now, it seems as though the same thing is happening to him. He feels safer.

Home.

Except when it stops raining, he has to face it all again. It doesn't help that there's a very solid reminder in front of the compound, right next to hers. Instead of the weather hammering outside, it's his heart in his chest, just like his was every damn time he tried to save the world. And the time he did, his heart wasn't loud anymore. There was no anxiety or panic attack, just a steady beat because he knew what he was doing.

He was doing what everyone needed him to do, knowing the answer before everyone else did. Always was too smart for his own good. The exhilarating feeling of having won the final battle was crushed in a single moment, a poor attempt at grasping for failing eye contact. For a failing heart.

There's a dent in the wall now.

 

 

 

 

Oh, God, the smell. Oil, sweat, metal. It all lingers in the air, still untouched. A safe haven almost, where he comes to be alone. If it's a good day, someone will come down, let him know that there's food waiting if he wants it, but that was rare in the beginning. He'd come down here for days at a time, locking himself out of reach. Away from the tears, the people, the pleas.

His fingers gingerly graze the top of several metal instruments left there long ago as a result of tinkering to the point of perfection, like always. He would spend days here too, working and sweating, their eyes catching between the rays of sunshine, secret smiles and flushed cheeks speaking volumes in company and even when alone. It was nice, but it wasn't enough.

The screwdriver clatters on the floor, thudding loudly in his ears. He can't spend this long here again.

 

 

 

 

Wind ripples through his hair, almost hurting his eyes it's so strong, but he's sticking it out. For him. 

The breeze is cool, stroking his cheeks in ways that only appear in his dreams, in his nightmares, too. But he's all right with it, considering that it's what he always wanted. Maybe not like this, maybe not under these circumstances, but if it happens he's going to let it happen.

He laid red asters earlier, cleaned them out of weeds and got rid of the old, dead flowers. Still, after all this time, there's still quite a bouquet, although that's probably mostly down to him. He doesn't mind. He likes the job, even if he doesn't think of it like that. He lets himself sit in the memories a while and then he remembers. He remembers why he is where he is.

A new week, a new flower.

 

 

 

 

Why he's reading the book is a simple reason: he found it hidden under paperwork, buried completely. It's worn, though, which means he read it out of choice many times and just decided not to let anyone know. He thinks it's cute, considering he never thought him to be a man of literature. A man of art.

It's an old copy of _Anna Karenina_ , some pages stained with water and thumbed through millions of times, but his notes in pencil cover every margin, snarky remarks and ideas to make it better. Make it more... him. He thinks it's cute. A new side of the man that had captured his heart and given him a home. And, in a way, it's not too late for him to find this out. He'd argue that it's the perfect time, but he'd probably argue for anything that makes his love look good.

His fingers tighten on the edges of the book.

 

 

 

 

He's pacing again. Sam told him that they're going to want to come again soon and that she'll want to talk to him this time. Ask him some questions about the man he says he knows so well. Knew so well. He's forgotten, progress pushed away from him in a sleight of hand that he never saw coming. He hates it, the tendency he has to slip. 

Deep breath.

 

 

 

 

"Was he nice?"

"Yes."

"Did he help people?"

"Yes."

"Did you love him?"

_Oh._

"He was my friend."

"Mommy said you were meant for each other, even if they were too. She understands why he chose her, but she wishes he hadn't. She thinks he would've been happier with you."

"I would've been happy with him too, but then where would you be?"

 

 

 

 

He had breakfast with everyone else the next day. She stayed overnight, with her mother's permission, of course. He felt different. Like a small part of him had returned, if even in the smallest amount. She's like her father in so many different ways, it confuses him how such a small head can hold so much information, so much wisdom, so much happiness. 

He's envious. That's why he didn't like seeing her at first. It was a living, breathing reminder of what he'd lost because he had been too late. He'd thrown his chances down a neverending well, watching them disappear from his sight forever. And so that is how things play out every night, each nightmare taunting him, teasing him for all his regrets and failings. A nightmare of clocks, telling him he's out of time.

The glass slips from his hand and crashes on the floor.

 

 

 

 

He's sorry. That's what it's taken him so long to realise, and oh, God does it burn his heart to hear his words in his head, the ones he spat out of rage and displeasure at the fact he had to deal with him at first.

_You better stop pretending to be a hero._

He swipes everything off the desk.

 

 

 

 

"It's time."

It's been years. Counting down the seconds until both of them would hold out their hands and eventually embrace. He craves it, the touch that has been held from him for so long.

It starts with a finger on his cheek. Then a hand. His forehead rests against his own, their eyes closed, embracing the moment. So long. So, so long.

"I missed you. I'm sorry I didn't-"

"Don't. No more regrets."

"I love you, Tony."

A breath.

"I love you, too, Steve."

 

 

 

 

The foundation of life is built on loss. Loss, and regret, and suffering, even if it shouldn't. He understands, though. They both do.

Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> did you like it? i hope :)


End file.
